


You Are What You Feel

by ungoodpirate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU from Season1/2, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Empath!Scott, M/M, Sciles Reversebang, empathic abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ungoodpirate/pseuds/ungoodpirate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott is bitten by a werewolf, but he doesn't turn into a werewolf. However, he is suddenly able to feel when his classmates are horny, what's wrong with the patients at the Animal Clinic, and that something dark is haunting Stiles as he sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are What You Feel

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sciles Reverse Bang. Check out more amazing stuff at scilesreversebang.tumblr.com
> 
> Link to the art---> http://scilesreversebang.tumblr.com/post/95240301564/artist-wherewolfling-prompt-44-author

Stiles winces down another gulp of Jack Daniels. “We should’ve just taken each other,” he says, talking about the prom. Neither Scott nor Stiles have a date.

While disappointing, this wasn’t exactly a surprise. They had started their sophomore year of high school with big hopes, believing it would the turnaround year for them. They were supposed to make first line in lacrosse, become popular, and get girlfriends. Stiles still had his eye on Lydia, but even with all his grand plans, Scott still thought Stiles needed a more realistic prospect.

Stiles waves a hand in the air above him. “Danny’s taking a guy and he’s popular.”

Scott steals the bottle of booze out of the loose crook of Stiles’ arm. He takes a smaller drink than Stiles. One of them has to have enough wits about them to navigate out of the preserve. “I don’t think that’s what makes him popular,” Scott says. “I think it’s the great at lacrosse thing.”

Scott had entertained a crush on the new girl, but she had quickly been folded into the popular crowd and thus away from him. He never got up the nerve to talk to her. He had even had the perfect opportunity her first day when she sat in front of him in homeroom. But what was he supposed to do to break the ice—offer her a pen?

Stiles mumbles something incoherent, laughs at himself, then flings an arm out, beckoning for the liquor to be passed back.

“And going stag together just would have been lame,” Scott adds. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and doesn’t see the way Stiles goes still in a way that is unnatural to him. The boy is always jerking in some direction and always winding words around things. Silence and stillness don’t become him.

 Stiles inhales his next sip and he sits up, coughing. Scott thumps his back.

“Thanks,” Stiles says once his breathing has returned to normal. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth then checks his watch. “God. Prom’s only half over. I don’t want to go home early on prom night.”

“Because this is so much cooler?” Scott says.

“This is an ex – exclusive party for two,” Stiles declares jabbing a finger upward in emphasize. His voice fills their clearing and echoes between the trees.

When Scott’s done laughing – because even just tipsy, alcohol makes everything funnier – he hears it. They way Stiles’ head tilts, Scott knows he does too. A growl. Quiet, but audible over the crinkle of the leaves caught in the breeze and the crackle of their small campfire.

Scott sees Stiles’ Adam’s Apple bob in a nervous swallow. His eyes slide over to Scott. “Didn’t they kill the mountain lion?” Stiles whispers.

Scott had been standing with his mom on the front step of the school on parent-teacher conference night when he heard the gun go off, loud and sharp.

He nods, but his eyes dart warily around the darkness outside their fire.

Between the trunks of two mangled trees Scott sees two glowing pinpricks of red. Eyes.

He grabs Stiles’ sleeve. He gasps: “Run–”

Neither of them get far.

…

After, Stiles clutches a Beacon Hills Animal Clinic-provided cotton pad to the back of his neck and says: “That wasn’t a mountain lion.”

“I know,” Scott says, drowning the tooth marks on his side in burning antiseptic. “I think it was a wolf.”

“There haven’t been wolves in California for, like, 60 years.”

“Yeah, well,” Scott says, sober and scared. “Tell the wolf that.”

…

For a long time, the wound stays open, the skin refusing to knit shut. A week passes, then another, and the teeth marks in his skin still look like they were made yesterday. Every day Scott is tempted more and more into going to his mom for help, despite the pact Stiles and he had made to never mention this misadventure to their parents ever. Ever.

But in the third week, when Scott sneaked into the bathroom to change his bandage before school, he pulls back the gauze to find the bite mark gone. Scott must have zoned out in shock for a minute or ten, because next thing he knows his mom is banging on the door, shouting, “You’re going to be late for school if you don’t get your ass moving.”

It’s something Scott’s heard from her a hundred times before in a hundred variations, but today it strikes him sudden and painful and weird. It’s an extra dose of weariness, and Scott wonders if his mom got enough sleep last night, if she’s frustrated over piling pills, or if Dad called recently and said something shitty.

 “Coming,” he calls back, voice choked-up. He rolls up the now useless bandages and stuffs them into the bottom of the trash bin.

…

The hallway is unbearable. It’s muggy and sticky and there are too many people. Is it always this crowded in the mornings before first period?

Scott is so distracted by tiredness, anger, sadness, happiness, and, Christ, a bit of horniness, that he walks past his locker twice. He feels scrambled and detached, and when he finally gets to his locker he leans his forehead against the cold metal, like it’s dry land and he’s been lost at sea.

Scott senses Stiles behind him. He‘s like a warmth in Scott’s chest. A mix of humor and camaraderie and other unidentifiable things that made Scott’s gut twist. He turns, and, yeah, there’s Stiles heading his way down the hall.

Scott rushes over to him. “Dude,” he says, and yanks up the side of his t-shirt to display his now unmarred skin.

Stiles’ eyes linger and he bites his bottom lip. He pulls down at the back collar, showing his own lack of injury.

“What the hell?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “And I’ve tried to know. I’ve looked into it. We’re medical miracles…”

Scott puts his fingers to the back of Stiles’ neck where he remembers the claw marks being, running vertical up the back of Stiles’ neck. Scratch is the word Scott has used in his head to describe Stiles’ injury, making it a matching set to his own. Bite and scratch. But scratch hadn’t been entirely accurate. Stiles’ true injury had been a place where claws had been stabbed in and retracted with little other injury.

It all seemed too precise for animal like a wolf or mountain lion or whatever. This creature had stalked them, pursued them, bitten Scott, “scratched” Stiles, and then disappeared. They were lucky.

Stiles shivers under Scott’s fingers. Scott draws back.

“Sorry,” he says. “Does it hurt?”

Stiles gives him a sour smile. “Not really. Not that.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing. Come on. Test time.”

…

Test days are always nerve-wracking for Scott, even though this time he prepared pretty well. Yet as more of the class filters in, his anxiety rankers up and up. Maybe he’s just catching everyone else’s nervousness?

Not-so-new girl, Allison Argent, takes the desk next to Scott’s. He knows her name now. Everyone knows her name now – or: her aunt, Kate Argent, arsonist and serial killer. It had been all over the news, and it had been a big deal for Stiles’ dad, closing all those open cases. Scott’s been curious about the timing, as well. Kate Argent died on prom night, the same night Stiles and Scott were chased by _something_ not far from the old Hal House.

Stiles had relayed the gritty details to Scott before they even made it to press. “Her throat was slashed out,” Stiles had said, voice quiet, not to get caught by his father giving out information he shouldn’t even know. “By claws.” There had been a beat of silence, their own wounds too fresh, and them both thinking the same thing. Was whatever killed this woman (then still unidentified) the same thing they had survived?

Scott’s test anxiety – a shaking knee, drumming fingers, and pen tapping – goes taut. Not calm taut, but rung tight. Stretched, rigid, scared, ready to be put upon…

He looks over as Allison Argent tucks a curly lock of hair behind her ear in a gesture that is anything but casual.

Scott leans a little out of his seat. “Hey,” he whispers to Allison. “You okay?”

She tilts her head but doesn’t quite look at him. “What?”

“Uh… are you okay?”

Her jaw sets. “Is this a joke?”

“…No.”

“My first day back after… after the funeral” Her voice is like wind at the beach. “And this is the day you talk to me for the first time to ask me if I’m alright?”

She’s mad; it’s obvious – but it’s like this morning, when he _perceived_ more from his mom than he usually would. Allison’s projecting out anger, but she’s also projecting it inward, _and how could Scott know that?_ He doesn’t know her.

Scott sits back in his own daze of confusion and says no more. Allison turns her head, facing away.

Stiles pokes Scott in the back with his pencil. “What was that about?”

“I don’t know,” Scott replies. Even though he knows most of the answers on the test that the teacher passes out two minutes later, he doesn’t feel at ease for the rest of the period.

…

“I can’t believe Coach put us on the bench during a scrimmage. It’s,” Stiles cups his hands around his mouth and yells Coach Finstock’s general direction, “NOT EVEN A REAL GAME.”

Scotts rolls his lacrosse stick between his palms. “I guess he wants the people who actually play to get practice.”

Stiles gives Scott a little glare, like he doesn’t appreciate Scott’s commentary at all. He quickly goes back to yelling at the people on the field, but Scott’s distracted. He feels hot pinpricks climbing up the back of his neck and shifts in his seat to get more comfortable. It doesn’t help.

It’s definitely coming from behind him, whatever it is. Scott twists around. Lydia is sitting high up on the bleachers, watching the lacrosse players. She twists a long strand of her hair around a finger.

There’s shouting out on the field. Scott turns back around to see most of the team cluttered around one goal, number 37 pumping his hands into the air. Jackson had scored. The pinpricking sensation intensifies as Stiles yells again, “It’s not a real game!”

The cogs come together in Scott’s brain. Lydia’s all hot and bothered for Jackson scoring. This a horrifying realization.

Stiles must’ve noticed Scott looking up the bleachers, for he does the same, his demeanor changing when he sees Lydia there. “Damn, that’s a short skirt.”

Scott gets a same wave of feeling from Stiles that he was getting from Lydia. He stands, suddenly, to get away from it.

Stiles squints up at him. “You okay, Scottie?”

“I need,” Scott starts. He just needs to get away. “Bathroom.”

“You need bathroom?” Stiles repeats back, but Scott’s already power-walking away.

Scott can’t think of anywhere else to go, so he goes where he said, to the bathroom in the boy’s locker room. At the sink he splashes cold water on his face. He’s alone, and for the first time all day Scott feels like himself. He worries, though— what’s going on with him?

…

The day Erica Reyes marches into school with a bombshell makeover, Stiles invites Scott over for a video game marathon. It’s a Friday night and “A celebration for finally being healed,” Stiles describes it. Scott spies a little wince in Stiles’ grin as he says this. Neither of them feel this whole debacle settled right, but Scott’s not sure how to conjure up the right words to ask if Stiles is going through the same thing Scott is. How can he explain the sensation that everyone is just _more_?

They play video games until their stomachs growl. Stiles orders in pizza with some cash his dad left for him. They eat their fill, then play more video games until they give up due to eye strain. Stiles puts in a movie, which doesn’t help with the eye strain thing, but it’s easier not to pay attention to.

Sitting next to Stiles on the couch, eyes drooping, Scott is comfortable and sleepy. Stiles is warm where their shoulders are pressed together.

It’s not like the nights this week that Scott has spent sequestered in his room, detoxing from the day of absorbing too much of other people and sorting himself out. With Stiles, with his best friend who Scott understands more than anyone, a happy, tired buzz is doubled and reflected back at him. He sinks into the warmth, eyes slipping shut, deciding not to fight it anymore.

Scott awakes feeling cold, and sits up, squinting. Oh, right, Stilinski house. They fell asleep on the couch. _They_ fell asleep on the couch.

Something’s off. Scott woke up for a reason. He looks down at Stiles, who is sprawl-curled in a way that Scott can’t imagine being comfortable, head propped up on the arm of sofa. Otherwise, Stiles looks fine, wrapped up in undisturbed sleep.

But _wrong, wrong, wrong_ keeps pounding inside Scott’s skull. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he inspects every corner of the room from his seat, expecting to see some intruder with a knife. There are none to be found. It’s just them.

He touches Stiles’ arm, and he’s struck with realization. It’s him, it’s Stiles who has sucked away the safety and familiarity of this place and replaced it with this pulse-pushing and tepid-cold something else.

“Stiles?” Scott says, barely audible. No reaction. “Stiles,” he says again, voice higher. He grips Stiles’ arm, gives him a little shake. The boy turns his head, makes a little noise, and Scott wants to cry.

He places both hands on Stiles’ shoulders and shakes again. “Wake up,” he demands.

Stiles shifts again, this time blinking his brown eyes open. “Scott?” he croaks, and the _wrongness_ that had been infecting Scott disappears in that space of a blink.

Scott sits back on the couch, breathing hard.

Groggily, Stiles sits up. “Are… are you okay?”

Scott puts a hand over his eyes, reeling. That was intense. The most intense of anything he’s experienced since he started experiencing whatever the hell this is.

“Scott?” Stiles leans in closer. When Scott drops his hand it’s hard to look at him.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks, hearing his voice breaking and not caring one bit.

“Yes?” Stiles says, confused. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You weren’t having a nightmare?” Scott asks. It’s the only logical leap he can make (not that anything about this night is logical anymore).

Stiles shakes his head. “Not that I remember. Was I acting like I was?”

“It’s complicated,” Scott answers because ‘you felt like you were terrified’ is not an appropriate response.

Stiles stares at Scott for a long moment, tilting his head like he’s solving a puzzle. “Were you?”

Yes, is the answer. Scott was having a nightmare, except too scary and too real and when he was too conscious.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe Scott _was_ dreaming. Maybe that’s what woke him up and filled him with such a sense of dread. And he just projected it on Stiles. That makes sense…

It doesn’t explain everything else Scott’s experienced this week, but he can selectively ignore that when Stiles reaches and grabs his wrist to get his attention. It’s a different kind of touch then they usually share. Not high fives or trying to elbow the other into losing concentration during video games or accidently falling asleep on each other.

The pad of Stiles’ thumb drifts over Scott’s pulse-point. His hold is loose and his fingertips cold, but not like the cold from earlier, pressing and petrifying. It’s human, a reminder of where Scott’s body ends and Stiles’ begins.

Because Scott can’t think of another explanation, he nods. Let be accepted that this is his nightmare.

Stiles offers to drive him home, but Scott insists he’s not a nine year old scared at his first slumber party. They relocate upstairs, where Scott has a sleeping bag thrown out on the floor. Stiles is so tired that just a minute after he collapses onto his bed does Scott hear his tiny snores start. He, however, is not so lucky, but it’s not lying on the floor that’s keeping him awake.

As he stares at the ceiling, Scott can’t help but swim in unease that something else happened tonight other than the terror. He’s just can’t figure out what.

…

Animals are easier to be around. They’re straightforward: happy, scared, angry. They wear their feelings on their surface, without nuance and uncomplicated.

Deaton’s treating a dog from a couple who are shocked that she bit one of them last week. “I’m not an animal psychologist, but they trust me,” Dr. Deaton explains to Scott as he hangs his backpack up on a wall hook.

The dog snarls at Scott from where she is leashed.

“She’s hurting,” Scott says from his corner of the room. Deaton prefers he kept back from the more temperamental pets.

“Pain can cause a dog to lash out,” Dr. Deaton says. “I haven’t been able to find anything… though she’s barely letting me close.” He pauses, almost waiting for Scott to say more. He’s a teacher like that. Not your typical boss.

“Her paw,” Scott says. He gets it because the dog isn’t just hurt, but afraid. She can’t get away as fast if something goes wrong

“She is favoring her right side,” Deaton observes.

Scott goes to do some of his chores around the building. Deaton finds him fifteen minutes later, a centimeter long thorn in a petri dish.

“Good intuition, Scott… You’d make a good vet, if you’re considering it.”

Scott grins. He’s an average student, an abominable lacrosse player, and lacking in his love life, but here, in the animal clinic, he’s successful. As things are going, Scott would prefer to spend most of his time around animals than around people anyway.

…

Stiles sags down on the seat next to Scott. The rocking of the bus must be making him drowsy, and his weight presses against Scott.

Fifteen minutes into Stiles’ nap, thirty minutes into the bus ride to the away game, it’s no longer stuffy in the vehicle stuffed with teenage boys. At least not to Scott. He is overcome with a chill like a foggy night rolling in.

No. Not again. It was supposed to be a fluke. But the chill turns stronger,  despite Scott’s denial, prickling like shards of ice. He swallows hard. His mouth is dry. Stiles’ head flops into Scott’s shoulder. His face is serene and Scott resists the urge to touch it.

He shivers under the intensifying pressure of the unreal cold. He’s not sure what to do.

The bus goes over a pothole and Stiles jerks awake. He raises his head and wipes at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t apologize for getting in Scott’s space and Scott honestly doesn’t mind. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last.

He doesn’t want it to be the last.  

 “Why’re you staring at me?” Stiles says, glancing over at him.

“Just…” There’s not plausible explanation.

“Scott,” Stiles says, followed by a huff like Stiles’ is trying to goad him into saying something more.

If Scott knew what Stiles wants him to say, he would say it in a second. Every one of Stiles’ smiles is a gift, especially in the aftermath of the terror. To know he’s is alright...

Scott swallows the buildup of saliva in his mouth and feels nauseous. “It’s nothing.”

Stiles replies with a short, bitter “Sure” and turns to look out the window.

…  
Scott feels his mom before he hears her, a permeating, deep-seated, motherly worry, then her voice outside his bedroom door.

“I’ll ask him…” are the only words Scott makes out before she knocks.

He sits up in bed. “Yeah?”

Mom opens the door and steps in. She’s changed into her scrubs top but still in pajama pants and slippers. A phone is in hand.

“Did Stiles sneak in here last night?” she asks instead of a ‘good morning.’

“No,” Scott says. His pulse picks up like its lacrosse practice and not like he was just asleep five minutes ago.  

“And he wasn’t planning to sneak off somewhere late last night or this morning?”

“Not that he told me.”

Melissa raises the phone back to her ear. “No,” she says into the mouthpiece.

“What’s going on?” Scott asks. Melissa holds up a finger for him to wait as she finishes on the phone. “…I’ll let you know straight away. And let me know too. Okay.” He thumbs the end button the phone, and her arm drops like it’s holding a stone.

“Mom?”

“Stiles wasn’t at home this morning.”

Scott is on his feet but he doesn’t remember moving. He scrambles through the piled junk of his desk, finds his cell phone among it. No messages. No missed calls.

“I have to look for him,” Scott says, though he has no clue where to start.

“ _You_ have to go to school,” Mom says, the surest she’s sounded this morning.

“Stiles is missing!” Scott protests.

“Exactly,” Melissa says. She’s at his side, and even though she’s smaller than him, at her touch on his shoulders, he turns to face her.  “I don’t need you running off to god knows where, too. If you know anything…”

“I don’t,” Scott says, too sharp. He rubs at his eyes. He knows nothing helpful anyway.

“You need to go to school,” Melissa says, “And if Stiles shows up there, you need to let me and the Sheriff know right away. If he contacts you at all...”

“Let you know,” Scott mumbles in agreement.

Melissa forces a grin.

“He’s probably fine,” she says, but Scott knows she doesn’t believe this.

He nods, though he believes it even less.

…

Scott leaves four messages (plus 8 other missed calls) and thirteen texts on Stiles' phone over the course of the school day. None was answered. The second the bell rings announcing the end of last period, Scott is on his phone, calling his mom.

"Any news?" he asks when she picks up.

"I was going to ask you the same thing." Her voice is scratchy.

Scott swears. Melissa admonishes him for his language, but it's half-hearted at best.

"He'll turn up. I'm sure he'll turn up... See you at home for dinner?" It's like she's afraid he'll disappear next. It's not too crazy. The animal attacks had stopped but new series of deaths had started haunting the town.

"Yeah," Scott says. "When do you get off?"

"Six. I have the car."

"I know."

"You're going to look for him, aren't you?"

Scott flexes his free hand. "If I don't, I feel like... like I'll come out of my skin."

"Scott."

"I'll be safe. I promise. I'm just going to look for him – I don't know where I'm going to look for him. I just have to try."

Melissa's breathing goes static-y through the phone reception and Scott knows she's accepting this. "If you think Stiles is anywhere dangerous, call the sheriff's department. Call his dad."

"I will."

They repeat their promises to both be home for dinner, say their goodbyes, and then, just as Scott's about to hang up, Melissa says, "I hope you find him."

"Me too."

...

Scott makes the rounds to any of Stiles' and his current or past haunts, to any place that held some amount of significance or memory to them. The old arcade on Fifth that was their favorite hang out in sixth grade, the liquor store that always accepted fake ids, the diner Sheriff liked to take them to, even the animal clinic in case Stiles wants Scott to find him but no one else (and Stiles knows where the spare key was hidden after the wolf-attack debacle). Scott even swings by his own house and Stiles’ just in case he has showed up there during the day.  

Scott only has one woefully out-of-date picture of Stiles’ in his phone from the dawn of freshman year, when they were all big hopes and even bigger dorks. It’s the picture that accompanies Stiles’ contact info. When Stiles is found (when, when, when, never if) Scott will have to update it.

The picture’s close enough for anyone to recognize Stiles though, if they had seen him. A goofy kid with a buzz cut, often loud, clumsy, hard to miss. Scott wants to explain that Stiles’ features are sharper now, then when the photo was taken. He wants to explain that Stiles has graduated from goofiness to a black belt in sarcasm. Wants to impress the importance that this isn’t just another runaway kid, that Stiles is more than ‘Have you seen this guy?’ because he is Scott’s _best friend._

All that searching and all Scott gets is ‘no, sorry,’ disinterest, and mild worry from strangers who go back to their own concerns seconds later. 

Scott maybe has time to check one more place before he has to head home for dinner. He’s fairly sure his mom won’t let him out to search afterwards. The problem is that Scott is out of ideas. He’s sure Mom has been keeping a close eye on who’s being admitted to the hospital and Sheriff Stilinski probably has the whole force keeping an eye out for Stiles if not actively searching. What help can Scott be compared to that, unless because he knows Stiles as well as himself.

Scott doesn’t have any more ideas, until he thinks – the preserve, where they had survived the attack. Scott hops on his bike and starts peddling with all his might. The preserve is too big to search all by himself, so he decides to check their illicit drinking spot and work from there.

Scott turns up a path into the Beacon Hills Preserve, goes about a quarter mile in, then is forced to lean his bike against a tree. He continues on foot through the shrubbery and over tree roots to get to the clearing off the trail where the two of them had gathered more than once for camp fires and alcohol consumption.

Even before he reaches it, Scott can see that no one is there. He continues anyway, hoping that maybe just a new angle or a closer look will reveal something. Nada. Scott walks into the clearing, then through it, then past it. He makes a big loop around it, eyes peeled for a sign. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls Stiles’ name several times, facing different directions, each time waiting for his echoes and the birds disturbed by his yelling to quiet down, waiting to hear Stiles calling back. Stiles doesn’t call back.

Scott returns to the clearing. He has time yet and nowhere else to look.  He moves to take a seat on out of the rocks, hits something like a stone with his toe, and it makes a small arch in the dirt. It’s not a stone. It’s too proportional and light. It’s a phone.

Scott scrambles as he picks it up. It’s the same make as Stiles’ phone. He plays with the power button and the screen sunrises to life. Scott’s heart triples its beats. It’s Stiles’ phone.

“Stiles!” Scott screams out again.

A crow squawks loud overhead and then Scott hears it, a quiet whimper, hopeful and scared. _Help. Scott…_

There is no way that it was actually said. And no way Scott can decipher where this sound without source is coming from.  It doesn’t matter. Scott’s not going to question it. He just turns in a direction and goes, running faster than he ever managed in lacrosse practice. Stiles’ phone is gripped tight in his fist, and Scott just runs.

He comes upon the Hale house. Scott stops, heaving breaths, seeking out his inhaler from his back pocket and taking a huff. All the details Scott knows of this place had come from Stiles relaying them, an insider on his dad solving the years-old arson case just a few weeks ago.

Is this the type of dangerous place his mom meant when she cautioned him? It _was_ a crime scene, technically, though an inactive one now. Scott walks the remaining distance to the house in a daze. He has to try, even if this place does give him a serious case of the heebie-geebies. More than that, the house fills him with a sense of _wrong._ There is something unsettling about this place, Scott decides, as he takes the creaking front steps with care, like into a graveyard on Halloween night.

In the entrance hall, Scott shivers. He doesn’t want to think too hard about the people who died here, the people who made up the ash. He doesn’t want to think about Kate Argent’s body found with her throat ripped out. Her blood probably still stains the wood floor somewhere Scott doesn’t want to see.

Taking his chances, Scott turns to the right into a wide open space that might have been a living room. A breath catches in his throat.

“Stiles.”

Stiles is curled on the floor on his side, shoeless, still in his pajamas, which are now dusted with soot. Scott collapses to his knees beside him, not remembering the steps in between.

Stiles awakens instantly this time when Scott puts his hands on him and calls his name. Stiles wakes, confused and upset until Scott can calm him down and explain what he can. Stiles digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“I must have been sleepwalking. I did that when I was little.”

“Ever this far?” Scott asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “Only around the house.”

“Do you –” Scott starts, deciding to look up everything about sleepwalking later, “Remember anything?”

Stiles just shakes his head. He looks as disturbed as Scott feels.

…

Stiles calls his dad with his reclaimed phone. (“Must have taken it when I started sleepwalking on instinct” Stiles says when Scott returns it to him.) He rubs at the back of his head as he presses the phone to his ear, out on what was once the front lawn of the Hale house.

The entire moment is rather intimate, and when Scott realizes he can hear Sheriff Stilinski over the speakers, he steps away to create some amount of privacy. When the call is done, Stiles’ eyes are red-rimmed.

“Is he mad?” Scott asks.

“No, not after I explained…,” Stiles purses his lips for a second. “He coming to pick us up.”

As they walk, Scott texts his mom the good news. Stiles steps on a stick and winces when it snaps under his bare foot.

“How did I make it out here without shoes?” he says.

“Take mine,” Scott says, starting to tug off his sneakers.

“You sure?” Stiles asks as Scott hands the left one over.

“I still got socks.”

They wait for the sheriff on a fallen tree at the edge of the preserve just off the entrance road. Sheriff’s car approaches over the speed limit and slows with a brake-screeching halt. He leaves the door open as he rushes out to get to his son, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug.

After letting go of his son, Sherriff turns to Scott. He grips him by the shoulder. “Thank you,” he says, voice choked with emotion. Scott doesn’t trust himself to answer, and just nods.

…

The four of them – Melissa, Scott, Sheriff, and Stiles – share dinner that night in the Stilinski home. Everyone is giggly-happy, especially Melissa and Stiles’ dad, over Stiles being found. It feels like champagne bubbles in Scott’s head, but he just can’t get into it. He knows something more is wrong. What had Stiles said once, an adage he had picked up from his father? Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. Three times has Scott now sensed something dark coming from Stiles in his sleep. And the third time had trumped them all.

When Melissa is getting ready to leave, Scott asks if he can stay. That plea he heard, subconscious, maybe not even real, for _help_ is haunting him.

His mom and the sheriff share one of those silent, parental conversations had with only the eyes. The way they grin when they’re done, it’s clear they both think this gesture is cute.

“Sure,” Melissa says, kissing Scott on the temple before she leaves.

“I’m fine, y’know,” Stiles says when they retreat up to his bedroom.

“You really scared us,” Scott says, using _us_ instead of _me_. “I don’t think you know how much you scared us.”

“I know,” Stiles says somberly, then peps back up too fast to be genuine. He grasps Scott by either shoulder. “But I’m fine.”

“You’re lying,” Scott says as easily and as sure as Stiles rambles off trivia.

Stiles blinks, and the peppiness vanishes. “It wasn’t sleepwalking,” Stiles says.

“What?”

“The more I think about it, it couldn’t be. Sleepwalking doesn’t last for hours. It just _doesn’t_.” His hands flail in the air. “I couldn’t have walked from here to the middle of the preserve in that time… and then slept all day on top of it? It doesn’t make sense.”

Scott takes a careful breath. “Then what do you think it was?”

“I don’t know. A fugue state, maybe? I mean it fits. The amnesia –”

“So you don’t remember anything?” Scott asks quickly.

“No,” Stiles snaps. He’s as frustrated with his lack of memory as Scott is scared by it. Stiles sits on the edge of his bed, body bunted up with contained emotion. They are practically exploding from Stiles, like jabs of blinding light, too much for Scott to discern.

Scott kneels in front of Stiles so he can catch his eyes even as he looks stubbornly downward. “Stiles?” Scott says softly, putting a hand on Stiles’ knee, rubbing a thumb across the fabric. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose with his long fingers. “I just… I have a bad feeling about this.”

Scott’s grips tight to Stiles’ knee.

“What do you mean?” Scott asks.

“There’s like twelve hours I can’t remember, dude. I woke up in an burned out house. Why wouldn’t I feel bad about this?”

Scott deflates because Stiles doesn’t know how deep the bad feeling goes. Scot licks his lips as his mouth has gone dry.

“I don’t feel good about this either… Because, dude, ever since that,” he lowers his voice, “Animal attack, I haven’t felt right either.” Scott wants to say more, wants to explain more, but he’s not sure how to.

“When did our lives stop being boring-pathetic and turn into this type of pathetic?” Stiles asks.

“Hey,” Scott says, “That’s me and my best friend you’re talking about.”

Stiles smiles down at him, and what a blessing it is. He then yawns wide, like he does everything. Loud, wide, known. His disappearing was the inversion of Stiles as a person. He rubs his eyes. “God, I’m tired.”

“Go to bed,” Scott says, sitting back on his heels. “I’ll be right here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He peers doe-eyed at Scott. “You always are.”

 …

Stiles subconscious is screaming at Scott. Throat-going-raw type screaming. And Scott can’t _do_ anything, least of all sleep. So he sits by Stiles side.

Scott had hoped, for one night, especially after today, for a reprieve. He was wrong to hope. It’s three a.m., and he had been awoken by _this_. It was instantly familiar. He couldn’t roll over and pretend.

As always, Stiles’ face is impassive in deep sleep. Nothing of his agony is betrayed in his body either. Scott moves from the floor to sit next to Stiles’ sleeping form on the bed.

Scott brushes the back of his fingers over Stiles’ hairline. It’s something he remembers his mom doing for him, in his youth, when he sick

Stiles’ eyes squint open, first the left then the right. Scott jerks his hand back.

“Scott?” Stiles says, voice croaky. He blinks a few times. “You’re crying.”

Scott shakes his head, the same time wiping his hand across his cheek. He discovers wetness there.

Stiles sits up. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t –” Scott starts. He shakes his head again. “I don’t know.”

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay,” Stiles says in his gentlest voice. Most people are only ever delivered his sarcastic and smartass side. Stiles pulls Scott into a hug and Scott’s body just goes, leaning his weight into Stiles. What a twist, that Scott is getting the comforting.

Who knows what Stiles’ theory – the boy always has a theory – as to what Scott’s tears are for.  

“I’m here, Scotty, I’m here,” Stiles says. He sits back and presses a hand to the side of Scott’s face. The other holds Scott’s shoulder. “I’m okay.” He pinches his lips. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Scott sniffles loudly. “I have something I have to tell you,” Scott says. “But not tonight.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, breathe catching.

They fall asleep together on Stiles’ bed and stay there for the rest of the night. 

The next morning is awkward in a way that isn’t normal for them. They change clothes in front of each other in the locker room regularly and had changed into fresh pajamas last night in the same closed bedroom without it being an issue. But this morning, as Stiles lends him an outfit for school, they are nothing but elbows and a series of _sorry’s_ and _excuse me’s._

Scott catches Stiles’ arm as Stiles yanks his bedroom door open.

“About last night,” he starts not knowing how he’s going to finish. Doesn’t matter. He would have been struck silent by Stiles’ amber eyes anyway.

“I get it, Scott. I know you’re not ready, but I get it.”

“You do?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s kind of obvious.”

“It is?”

Stiles cocks his head to the side. “After last night…” he says with raised eyebrows, leaving it hanging. “I mean, _come on_.”

“Oh.” Scott’s willing to admit that he had been a mess last night, but had he really given it away when he didn’t even have the words to explain it yet.

Scott doesn’t understand the vibes he’s receiving from Stiles’ right now.

 “It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Stiles says, “I’ll be here when you are.”

…

Scott can’t puzzle out Stiles’ words from this morning. He says he _knows_ , but Scott doesn’t know how Stiles could know about the darkness that reeks from him in his sleep? Or if he did know, why didn’t he admit it any of the times Scott had awoken him?

It bothers him all the way to work.

Deaton says, “I heard you found Stiles. You’re a hero.”

“I wouldn’t— wouldn’t say hero.” Weren’t heroes supposed to feel heroic? Not desperate and lost? Scott fiddles with the receipts he’s organizing.

Deaton leans against the desk. “Mind telling me how you found him?”

Scott fidgeting stops. No one has asked him that yet. They three main players in the incident – Melissa, Sheriff, and Stiles – were distracted by other things.

“I got lucky,” Scott says.

“Some luck you have.” Deaton tilts his head. “I’m sure it’s quite a story.”

Scott says nothing.

“More intuition?” Deaton asks, and Scott jerks his head up. He catches Deaton’s eyes; the man’s gaze is intense, searching into Scott. A rolling tinge of curiosity and suspicion hits him.

“I looked everywhere I could think,” Scott says. “And eventually I found him.”

Deaton doesn’t pry anymore about the incident. However, Scott knows, knows in the way that he _knows_ now, that Deaton is wise to more than he shows.

…

Scott grabs Stiles by the jersey. “Remember when I said I needed to talk to you about something?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Here?” Stiles asks, glancing around the locker room, crowded after practice and sticky from too many sweaty bodies.

“You’re right,” Scott says. “Too crowded.” He doesn’t let go of Stiles’ jersey as he leads them out into the school, into the vacated halls, and finds a spot under a stairwell to sit. Stiles joins him on the tile, facing Scott, knees pulled up.

“I don’t really know where to start…” Scott says, pushing his wrists into his eyes.

“Start. Start anywhere. Start yesterday. Starting is the heart of starting, right?”

Scott drops his arms and huffs out a laugh. “What’re you even saying?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles’ smile is broad. Scott’s tingly all over.

Scott shakes his head. His bangs fall across his forehead. This clears none of the tingles, none of the pricking warmth along the inside of his skin, nor his struggle for words.

“I guess it started prom night,” Scott says. “We could’ve been killed.”

Stiles nods. “Make sense,” he says.

“What makes sense?” Scott asks.

“The start,” Stiles says. “There’s nothing like being with your best friend and realizing that there is no one you’d rather be with.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. If couldn’t have avoided it all together, he wouldn’t want to have faced down that menace with anyone else.

Scott’s memories of the event are scrambled, but what he has is vivid. They could barely manage to keep the ground under their feet as they ran. They didn’t split up. Sometime just as they started to flee, Stiles grabbed Scott’s hand and held it tight. Scott gripped back.

He doesn’t know who the wolf got first. All Scott does know is that Stiles didn’t let go until teeth had met flesh.

“Then there was that night,” Scott says, “Where I was playing video games at your house and I stayed over.”

“Of course,” Stiles says, goading Scott along.

“Then the other night at your house, after the…” he doesn’t say _disappearance_ because he doesn’t want it to be the jinx.

“Don’t forget the time in the bus,” Stiles adds, mock counting off his fingers.

“You know?” Scott asks, shock evident in his tone.

Stiles’ laughs, sounding a bit high. Sparkling warmth is still infecting Scott, and he’s not sure what it is, but he knows it’s Stiles’.

“How couldn’t I?” Stiles says.

“But I asked you!”

“No you didn’t.”

“About nightmares, the first night. And then after I found you… if you remembered anything.”

“What are you even talking about?” Stiles asks.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you stare at me when I’m sleeping,” Stiles says. His eyebrows are slanted downward. “That means you either want to kiss me or skin me.”

The tingling has dampened down but it’s still popping along. Scott gets it. He’s felt variations of it before from his surrounding students. From Lydia towards Jackson on the field. From Stiles on the bench towards Lydia. From almost all of his classmate’s everyday towards another: between crushes and broken hearts and boyfriends and girlfriends.

Stiles likes Scott. Like, _like_ likes him. And it’s stronger than he had every experienced before, perhaps why it was so confusing for Scott. Or perhaps Scott couldn’t think something like that would be directed at him, _from Stiles…_ but. It’s not an unpleasant realization.

“Well…” Scott starts. “I don’t want to skin you.” He feels struck dumb, in every meaning of the word.

Stiles’ biting his bottom lip, but like carbonation, it’s like the emotions have been shaken up and are expanding and spilling over. Scott’s not sure what’re his own and what are Stiles’.

Stiles leans in, and it’s just half a slant what Scott puts a hand on his chest to stop him.

“I’m still –”

“Sure,” Stiles cuts across, relieving Scott of having to finish. Scott knows that a Stiles with a crush is a Stiles with a plan. But Stiles doesn’t look mischievous or scheming now, just soft-eyed.

Scott closes the lids of his eyes and barely seen patterns dance across them. He releases a breath. There’s too much tangled up in him, gut-wrenching storm waves of confusion and want.

Stiles voice slices through. “Scott.” It’s gentle. Scott presses a hand to the tile floor to hold himself up.

A palm goes down on top of his hand, like a test. It’s warm and calming and belongs to Stiles. This means Scott’s internal torment is his own. If he can get it to settle, what is left for Scott to find? He breathes slowly like they instruct on his mom’s yoga videos. Stop the storm, still the waves, separate what Stiles is feeling right now – hope and tinged hurt and his exact brand of want, want, want – and what Scott is feeling – nervousness and surprise and worry over whatever is afflicting Stiles and… This other thing. This tingly thing.

He opens his eyes.

“You okay there?” Stiles asks, voice sweet.

Scott nods, jerky. He leans in and Stiles meets him halfway there. Scott’s thoughts turn to static.

…

Scott’s absolutely floating, back to the locker room to get a shower and get changed, on his bike to work, and then at the animal clinic. But the floating turns into sinking… because, well, here’s the list:

1)      Scott’s never thought about liking guys before, and now he thinks he does, because he does like Stiles, and Stiles is definitely a guy, and that’s sort of a big realization to have.

2)      It’s _Stiles._ And also Scott’s first, well, real kiss. And they didn’t real define what they were when the left school. Scott doesn’t want to mess this up.

3)      The _problem_ with the darkness haunting Stiles is still a problem.

“Something’s distracting you,” Deaton says. His voice like warm tea as he speaks: unassuming, soothing, sophisticated.

Scott shrugs.

Deaton rounds the desk, stands opposite Scott. “I am your boss, but I also like to think that I’ve been a mentor to you…” He leaves it as an ambiguous question.

Scott looks up. “You are.”

“You can come to me, then, if you want… if you need anything. For advice. If you’re having any problems… I assure you, there is nothing too,” Deaton pauses and his next word permeates. “Nothing too _odd_ , that you can’t talk to me about it.”

Scott drops his eyes back to his hands. Deaton steps back, like he’s leaving. Scott’s not sure he’ll ever have this opening again, or this nerve to say it, so he speaks up.

“There is something.”

Deaton steps back in. He rests his forearms on the counter. “Yes?”

“It’s about Stiles. And me.”

Deaton nods, his mouth gently set and everything about his features open and un-judgmental. Deaton is not a man of strong emotions. He’s like a river, which is steady in its flow and deeper than it looks.

“Stiles has feelings for me. And I… feel back, but it’s complicated.”

Deaton blinks.

Internally, Scott reels back. “That’s not the type of thing you meant.”

Deaton says, “It’s just not what I expected,” without a waiver.

Scott tilts his head and lets himself focus in on the slightest shift in Deaton’s current. He puts it together with the conversation that just was.

“You want me to tell you something,” Scott states. He lowers his brow, looks at Deaton as intently as the man is looking at him. “What do you want me to tell you?”

Something pleased passes about Deaton’s features if not so explicit as in a smile.

Deaton returns Scott’s question with one of his own: “Are you aware there are security cameras in here?” He points to a spot in the corner and Scott looks up to see it.

“Huh,” Scott says. He hadn’t noticed before. What did this have to do with… oh. “Stiles and I came in here after hours one night but we were just –”

“Cleaning some nasty wounds, I know,” Deaton says. “What bit you, Scott?”

“A mountain lion,” Scott says, the town’s lie becoming his own.

Deaton then asks: “What actually bit you?”

The truth was unbelievable, but why did that mean Scott had to lie about it.

“A wolf with red eyes,” Scott says, expecting this to rebuffed as impossible or another lie. Deaton’s jaw tightens and he nods once.

“And have you felt different, since?” Scott doesn’t say anything right away, but the _yes, so much, I don’t know what to do_ , must be clear from the drop of his mouth and the cast of his eyes. Deaton follows up, “How?”

Scott then says the words, the best and most insane explanation, “I know what everyone is feeling. Like, right now, you… You’re a little worried but mostly intrigued, but underneath all that there is a lot of regret, from the past.”

For the first time, in all of his years knowing Dr. Deaton, Scott sees the man shocked.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Deaton says. He gives him the rest of the week off against Scott’s will. When he returns to the animal clinic the next day after lacrosse practice to beg Deaton for an answer, he isn’t there, but replaced by Dr. Ansler, the retired veterinarian who sometimes fills in.

Scott texts Stiles. _I need to talk to you. It’s important._

Stiles replies almost immediately. _I’m at home. Come over._

Stiles answers the door at his first knock. He jerks his head to motion for Scott to follow him upstairs. The Sheriff has his glasses on at a table covered in files. There had been another string of odd deaths, presumably murders. First someone crushed under a lift at garage, and the rest came pouring in after. If Scott hadn’t been so worried about Stiles, he might have been worried about this.

Stiles goes deep into his room. Scott closes the door. He doesn’t let go of the handle as he turns. Stiles’ bare feet shift on the carpet from inward pointing to parallel. He puts a hand to his hip then drops it. Scott lets the back of his head clunk against the solid door behind him.

“What did you want to talk about?” Stiles asks.

Scott was going to talk about Deaton and his weird questions about the wolf and about everything afterwards if he could manage it. But now Scott’s mouth is incredibly dry. He can feel his face heating up.

“What?” Stiles demands, though kind of squeaky.

Scott says the first thing that comes to his mind, and it’s completely honest: “You make me nervous.”

Stiles scoffs. “I make you nervous?” He tries to lean on his computer chair, but his computer chair has wheels and slides away under his angled weight. He rights himself. His hands tug down at his t-shirt. It says ‘stud muffin’ across the middle. “It’s the other way around… I’m worried I’m gonna wake up. I’m worried you’re gonna… you’re gonna change your mind.”

“I’m not here because I changed my mind.”

Stiles nods, all swift and jerky. “Good.”

They both stand where they are for a handful of seconds.

“You look like you’re about to run away,” Stiles says.

Scott huffs and it’s all breathy. “I think I still might.”

Stiles jerks his head back towards himself, seeming to exude confidence. “Why don’t you come over here.”

“I can’t move,” Scott replies.

“I could come over there.”

“Yeah.”

Stiles comes closer and Scott thanks God for doors. When he is in Scott’s personal space he wraps a hand along the side of Scott’s neck and presses their lips together. Scott takes a sharp breath and just sinks. He clutches at Stiles’ shirt now, at the waist.

Their first kiss, short and a surprise, had been cut off by someone tromping down the staircase. Scott had been too caught up in the surrounding circumstances to appreciate all the sensations: what lips feel like (soft and puffy), what tongues feel like (kinda weird actually), and what another person so close to you feels like (like a blanket, a campfire, the pleasant buzz and burn of alcohol on the right side of tipsy).

Fuck it. Fuck Deaton and his weird questions. Fuck the wolf that attacked them. Fuck Stiles’ nightmares that only Scott knows about. Fuck it all.

Scott detaches from the door. They – not without tripping – take it to the bed. Stiles pushes him down and gets on top and that’s an entire another range of sensations. Scott’s glad Stiles knows what he’s wants, because Scott’s hands flail to try and find a spot to settle on Stiles’ body.

It’s a bit sloppy, kissing, but maybe that’s the mutual inexperience.  And you run out of breathe. They never show that in the movies, the running out of breathe, or maybe he’s doing something wrong. But they have to break apart after a while to take in air and it’s like they just got done running laps. Stiles’ face is much too close for Scott to see it in focus, but he wants to look at him and his pattern of moles.

“How long?” Scott asks, still trying to fill his lungs properly and steady his heart, as if he ever could.

Stiles is smart enough to not need clarification. “I think people are always a little in love with their best friend,” Stiles says. Scott hears this as ‘from the beginning.’ How had Scott not been wise of this from the beginning?

“And you?” Stiles whisper-asks.

“I don’t know,” Scott answers. ‘It’s new’ he almost says, but it doesn’t feel new. It feels right – like Lego pieces finally aligned correct and snapping together to create something better than the sum of its parts.

If Scott dares try to string together moments in 20/20 retrospect, the moment under the stairwell had been the bam, the explosion of _wow oh this is. This is._ However, the fuse was lit before then, trailing back. When Stiles was missing and Scott still had headspace dominated by the minute changes to Stiles’ face since the photo in his phone was taken. When they spent prom night not at prom but with each other and it didn’t seem so awful.

And farther back, yet. Maybe Stiles was right, maybe it all began when they slowly merged from friends to _best friends_.

…

In retrospect, it’s foolish, that Scott ignores it all. Deaton’s questions and subsequent absence. Whatever darkness was preying on Stiles’ subconscious. That Scott is able to feel this darkness, among so many other things, at all.

But it’s who Stiles dominates Scott’s brain and vision. Stiles who will smile at Scott and for Scott. Stiles who will stuff notebook paper notes down the back of Scott’s shirt (which was pretty distracting) during class. Stiles who took four fumbling attempts to hold Scott’s hand under the lunch table, both of them going pink and avoiding eye contact, their hands sweaty. It didn’t even matter that Lydia and Allison were sitting at the other end of the table, whispering furtively together.

Well, except, yeah, Scott did have to ask about it. He’s heard about it for years.

(“What about Lydia?”

“Liking Lydia is like having a celebrity crush. She doesn’t know I exist, and I only know her as a fan.”

“What if that changed?”

“My crush on Lydia is like a dog chasing a car. I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I caught it.”

“… Is that from a movie?”

“It’s from _The Dark Knight_ , Scott! Yeesh.”)

…

Scott invites Stiles over his house for pizza night. They gorge themselves as Mom makes choice commentary about the bottomless pit that is teenage boys’ digestive system. All the while the two of them have been nudging each other’s sneakered feet. Is this footsie? Because Stiles kicked Scott in the shin at one point and in retaliation Scott almost knocked Stiles out of his chair.

They move to the couch and play Call of Duty at half-attention as they wait for Scott’s Mom to leave for the graveyard shift.

“No parties. No strippers. Don’t burn down the house. If you’re hungry later…figure it out yourselves. You’re both sixteen.” She slams the door behind her. Scott hits a trigger on his controller that pauses the game, pulling the menu on the screen. When Scott looks, Stiles’ eyes drop to Scott’s mouth. The controller drops from his fingers seconds later. Stiles fists the front of Scott’s shirt and pulls him in.

The door flings open and the two of them jerk upright in a tangle.

“Forgot my snack,” Mom announces, not even glancing at them as she rushes past to the kitchen. Scott holds his breathe until she’s out of the house again, listening for her car to start and disappear into the distance.

Stiles relaxes out of an unnatural ‘act natural’ pose just as Scott exhales. They laugh, then, at each other, at themselves, and their nervousness.

“That could have been awkward,” Scott says.

“What would we’ve said if she caught us?”

“I think it would be self-explanatory.” Scott scratches at the back of his head.

“Is it?” Stiles asks.

“Um…”

Stiles is nervous. He’s so easy to read sometimes, because he’s Scott _best friend._ But it’s not usually in the best friend repertoire to almost get caught making out on the couch by a parent.

“Are we together?” Scott blurts out.

Stiles face wrinkles up, and with an exaggerated hand roll he repeats back, “Are we?”

“We’re kind of together right now,” Scott says.

“In the semantic sense, yes, yes we are together because we’re in the same fucking place.” Stiles gestures aggressively down at the couch.

“What about the, uh, colloquial sense?”

“That’s what I’m –!” Stiles starts, the beginning of a rant judging from the rise in his voice. He stops, however, when he focuses in on Scott smiling, clearly teasing him.

“Jackass,” Stiles mutters, but doesn’t get more in before Scott’s kissing him. This should be awkward. The first time and after and now and forever on.  And yet it is so easy for Scott to lean in to kiss Stiles, to interlace his fingers with Stiles’, to just be with Stiles.   

“Do you want to go on a date then?” Stiles interrupts the kissing to ask.

“A date?”

“Yeah… Like, it’s one of the benefits of being _together_. You get make out with someone and also have them buy you shit.”

“Oh, so I’m paying?” Scott asks but can’t help but smile.

Stiles leans dramatically back along the couch, putting his hands behind his head. “I’m totally a trophy boyfriend.”

…

“So…” Scott tugs at the straps of his book bag. “ _Thor_ is playing at the multiplex. We could go.”

Stiles yawns loudly as he closes his locker. He stares blearily at Scott. “What’re you talking about?”

“About going to the movies. Together… a date?”

“Oh? Oh.”

Scott notices now the dark circles under Stiles’ eyes. “You okay?”

 “Didn’t sleep well last night,” Stiles says.

“Weird dreams?” Scott asks, trying to sound offhand but probably sounding eager.

“What’s with you and dreams?” Stiles says. “This is not the first time you’ve asked.”

As Scott ‘ums’ for a plausible answer, Stiles adds, “I haven’t remembered a dream in months.”

“Since the wolf?”

Stiles tilts his head as he calculates back. “Yeah. I guess so… What do you think that means?”

Scott gulps, like something out of a cartoon. It’s an opening. But Scott hasn’t felt anything dark from Stiles since the night after his disappearance (don’t think about it being that you avoid being around him asleep, McCall) and, well, everything is so nice now.

“I have no idea.”

If Stiles then looks at Scott with some measured suspicion, Scott distracts him with a proposition, “So, the date?”

“Yeah.” Stiles squints his eyes shut hard and then opens them like he’s trying to clear something from his vision. “Sounds fun.”

Scott shifts closer, and puts a hand on Stiles’ arm and concentrates. All Scott’s reading from Stiles is tiredness and nothing else strongly.

“Um… there’s a showing tonight at seven-thirty. I was thinking you could drive us because you actually have a car. If you could pick me up from work at like seven? I’ll pay for the tickets.” The only reason Scott can get out all these details when he’s distracted is that he practiced them.

“Oh, is Dr. Deaton back then?”

“Yeah, first day back.” There was a voicemail on Scott’s phone from the man (a call Scott missed because he had been _busy_ with Stiles) asking him to come back to work.

It turns out to be a fairly hectic shift of work in which Scott doesn’t get a chance to question Deaton about his disappearance. Dr. Ansler had been good at keeping the animals alive. He hadn’t, however, been good at (a) paperwork and (b) being tidy. The first of the tasks was tackled by Dr. Deaton back in his office. The second was handled by Scott, all the while keeping an ear out for the bell from the front desk. If Scott had thought he might get some answers from Deaton today, he was greatly mistaken.

When his shift ends, Scott doesn’t have the drive to try and grill Deaton for answers, especially because Stiles should be waiting for him in the jeep.

He’s not outside yet. Scott checks the time on his phone. Stiles still has a few minutes. Scott waits. Stiles doesn’t arrive. Scott texts. No response. He calls Stiles’ phone.

Stiles phone goes to voicemail. Scott hangs up and dials again. Partway through the third ring the phone is answered. 

"Hello," grunts Stiles, disoriented as if just awoken. 

Scott blurts: "Stiles. Where are you? Are you okay?" 

There's a pause, then, "Scott?" He sounds a little more aware and a little more scared. 

Scott swallows and nods, then realizes he can't be seen nodding. 

"Yes. It's me. Scott."

Stiles breathing is heard hard through the speakers on the phone. "I don't know... I don't know," he says.

"Stiles, where are you?" Scott knows he's close to panicking, but Stiles is already panicking so Scott forces himself calm for both of them. It’s amazing what you can do for another person.

Stiles rambles, not completely coherently or properly into the phone. Scott hears a few words, like ‘house.’

“House? Your house?” Scott asks and Stiles doesn’t answer. “Stiles!”

This must jerk his attention back. “Scott?”

“Are you at your house?”

“No.”

Another conclusion hits Scott so hard if he had the time he would question why it wasn’t his first thought. “Are you – are you at the Hale house?”

There’s a pause then, “Yes… I don’t know why I’m here.”

Scott runs his free hand through his hair and tugs it tight. “I think you were sleepwalking again, okay? You’re just disoriented. Stay where you are. I’m going to come get you. Okay, Stiles. Please say okay.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, though Scott’s not sure he’s comprehending it all. Scott’s playing all the options in his head: bike there, call his mom, call the sheriff, call 911… Stiles’ voice, just a whisper and very horrified interrupts.

“Oh, god. There’s a body here.” There’s a clatter. Stiles had dropped his phone or it was knocked out of his hands. The call cuts off.

Scott swears. He tries to re-call Stiles, but his hands are shaking so bad that he knocks his own phone out of his hands. It lands screen down on the edge of the curb then plops into a puddle on the street.

“Come on!” Scott screams at everything. His phone is dead when he retrieves it.

Scott is paralyzed for just a few seconds, then he runs back into the clinic. There’s a phone in there.

Deaton, behind the front desk, starts to say something as Scott bursts through the front door. Maybe it was “Forgot something?” but it’s cut off as Scott rushes around the desk to the phone attached the wall.

“I gotta call. I gotta call,” Scott says all rushed. He fumbles with the new phone in his hands and stares at the numbered buttons. His mind blanks on Stiles’ number. Scott’s never had to memorize it. It’s saved in his cell phone. His dead cell phone.

Scott may be on the verge of hyperventilating. Deaton’s hands are on his shoulders, turning him around.

“Scott,” the man says, urgent yet calmer than Scott could dream of being at the moment. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Stiles!”

“What about Stiles?” Deaton asks.

“He’s – he’s…” Scott’s eyes sting. Forming words is hard when just breathing is hard.

“You need to breathe,” Deaton says. “Listen to me. Inhale and hold your breath. Alright, good. Now exhale.” Deaton coaches him through slowing his breathing. Some order comes back to his brain although his eyes are still stinging.

“Now tell me about Stiles.”

“He’s at the Hale house, you know, the one in the preserve. He sleepwalked there, and I need to get him. But then he said something about – about a body, and then he dropped his phone. And then I dropped my phone… and I need to get to him!”

Without any more question, Deaton says, sure, “I’ll drive… But on the way, you have to tell me everything.”

…

They’re getting there faster than Scott ever could’ve gotten by himself, but in the passenger seat of Deaton’s car, every heartbeat feels like a minute and every minute like an hour. And Scott has no way to make sure Stiles is safe in the meantime.

As contingent on the ride, Scott told Deaton everything. Dr. Deaton just nodded as he concentrated on the road, going well above the speed limit. Scott wasn’t sure how Deaton could so accepting of Scott explaining the absurdity of feeling others’ emotions and how he felt the subconscious darkness from Stiles, and how that all tied into Stiles sleepwalking now. It didn’t even make sense to Scott.

He tenses when they turn on the road that cuts into the preserve, ready to jump out of the car, although they still have yet farther to go.

“He’s going to be okay,” Deaton says, maybe the first comforting words of the night.

“Then why’re you so worried?” Scott retorts somewhat harsh. He doesn’t need balms; he needs Stiles.

“I’m worried about a lot of things,” Deaton replies evenly.

Deaton turns off the road to a dirt one hidden under the fallen leaves. The ride is bumpier and Scott twists his hand onto the door handle.

As they pull up to the Hale house, it’s dark. Their headlights and moon above are the only illumination. As soon as the vehicle stops, Scott’s grappling with the door to get out. Deaton grabs Scott’s sleeve. “Wait,” he says and Scott stills though he hates it.

Deaton leans over Scott and removes a flashlight from the glove box. He turns off his car completely and when the headlights die Scott can see light peaking out in ribbons between the slats nailed over a busted out window.

“He’s in there,” Scott says, although he doesn’t really know this, just that there is light inside the dead house.

Deaton clicks on his flashlight and it creates an eerie glow before them. “Let me go first,” he says to Scott and Scott follows this by just managing to stay a half-step behind Deaton as they enter.

They go in the house and turn to the right, where the room with the light is. Deaton pushes open the door on creaky hinges. Scott sees Stiles sitting up against a wall, head in his hands, and Scott forgets any commands as he pushes past his boss to get to his boyfriend.

Stiles looks up and lunges at him as Scott skids to his knees beside him. Scott tucks his forehead against Stiles, overcome with immense relief. “Hey, hey. You’re okay… You’re okay?”

“I guess you’re the friend who said he was coming to get him,” says an unfamiliar voice from behind Scott. It’s from a guy – early twenties, really muscular, and vaguely familiar like when you see an actor in a small role in a movie and know you’ve seen then in something else but they hadn’t made a big enough of an impression to stick. “Thank god,” the guy says. “He’s been freaking out.”

“Who’re you?” Scott asks, immediately on edge.

It’s Stiles who answers. “The body. It’s wasn’t a body. Well, it was. Just not a dead one.”

The guy makes a noise that is clearly exasperated. Scott’s not really worried about him though. It’s one of the benefits of being able to _feel_ other people the way he did. This guy is rather disinterested in Scott and Stiles, and caught up in his own mix of troubles.

“Who was buried here?” Deaton asks. He’s standing at the edge of a wide hole in the floorboards, one Scott didn’t see until Deaton shone his flashlight down on it.

The muscle-y guy’s surface emotions turned from disinterest-irritation to immediate suspicion, but directed at Dr. Deaton. “What do you want?” he retorts, kinda growly.

“What’s your boss doing here?” Stiles whisper-asks Scott.

“Long story,” Scott says as he stands and pulls Stiles to his feet after him. There’s a tension building in this room and he wants to be ready to flee.

“I just want to help these boys here.” Deaton’s eyes flicker over to Scott and Stiles. “But to do that, I need to know who was buried here, Derek.”

Derek? Oh, the guy’s name. But how does Deaton –?

The guy – Derek – straightens up as if making himself bigger against a predator. What Scott sees next, he can’t be sure, because while he’s entranced with this scene playing out before him, he’s more entranced with Stiles beside him. His eyes keep coming back to Stiles’ profile, seeing him shaken but unharmed. But what Scott thinks he sees is this Derek-guy’s eyes flash red, but it could just be a trick in the weird lighting. The room’s only illuminated by Deaton’s flashlight and a camping lantern – the light Scott had seen from the outside.

“Who are you?” Derek demands.

The undercurrent of regret Scott had felt from Deaton before comes crashing up. “I was friends with your mother, once.”

The mood of the room shifts, from tense to incredibly sad, which makes Scott gasp with the intensity of it.

“It was Peter,” Derek says.

Deaton nods once. “He’s not to be trusted.”

Derek crosses his arms. “I know that. I just have bigger problems right now.”

“Not after everything he’s done,” Deaton says, again looking back at them.

Stiles says, “Wait. Are you looking at me? Why’re you looking at me?”

Derek rolls his eyes, and it seems so young amongst all this posturing. “You’re the one who poisoned me with wolfsbane and brought me here.”

“I – I don’t remember that,” Stiles says. “I got in the Jeep to do some errands before –” He looks at Scott for a long moment. “And then I woke up here.”

“It was Peter,” Deaton says.

“Who’s Peter?” Scott almost yells.

“My dead uncle,” Derek says.

“Your dead uncle?” Stiles says.

“Well, he’s not dead now,” Derek replies with a shrug.

“He’s not dead now,” Stiles repeats, eyes bulging wide but somehow calm. He turns to Scott. “Well, that it’s. I’ve gone insane.”

Scott laughs although nothing is funny. He says to Stiles, “I’m right there with you.”

…

Perhaps Scott and Stiles’ almost hysterical breakdown that followed made Dr. Deaton realize this was a particularly distressing – not to mentioned confusing as fuck – night for the teenagers. He ends his conversation with Derek, saying, “You can find me at the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic if you want to continue this talk, but I think it’s time I took these two home.”  

 Scott and Stiles get into the backseat, neither quite willing to be parted from each other. About five minutes into the drive, Stiles leans up toward the driver’s seat and says, “You not actually taking us home, right? You’re going to explain some of this shit to us first.”

“… I suppose I should. You two are in it now.”

“Okay, okay, that’s great,” Stiles says and while he sounds placated, Scott can sense the explosion coming. “Can you start with WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!”

Deaton is unfazed.

“Let’s get back to the clinic first…”

…

“So you’re saying,” Stiles repeats back, sarcastic skepticism turned up to around a seven. Scott is sure that if Stiles hadn’t had such a trying day it would be higher. “That this all happened because of werewolves.”

Deaton doesn’t flinch. Scott has known the man for a long while and he has grown exponentially in Scott’s respect. Deaton had never given the impression of a conspiracy theorist or ‘not all there’. If anything, he was overly stoic and centered at almost all times.

“That’s a bit of a simplification, but yes.”

Stiles leans back in his seat and raises an eyebrow. Scott cuts in front of anything his boyfriend has to say next.

“Why did you disappear?”

“I needed to meet up with an old contact for information,” Deaton says, nodding in affirmation. “I know a lot about this stuff, but I don’t know everything, Scott. Things weren’t playing out as I thought… See, when one is bitten –”

“By a werewolf,” Stiles quips in cynically.

“By an alpha werewolf,” Deaton says to Stiles, then to Scott, “Alphas are the ones with red eyes.” Scott shivers, because that detail is still vivid. Stiles snorts and mutters, “Of course.”

“One of two things occurs.” Deaton holds up one finger in count. “The person becomes a werewolf.” He lifts a second finger. “The person dies.”

Stiles sits up, all his snarkiness dissipated. “Is Scott dying?”

“No,” Deaton corrects before either of them can work into a proper state of panic.

Stiles clutches at his chest and throws his head back. “Shit, man.”

“Now you know how I’ve felt through all of this,” Scott says with a bitter smile. Stiles reaches over and puts his hand onto of Scott’s.

“There is a third option,” Deaton goes on. “A rare occurrence in which a werewolf bite can _awaken_ something latent in a person. For you, Scott, it sparked your empathic abilities.”

Scott takes a hiss of a breath. He knows what that means from comic books. To have a word for his experiences… it’s a relief in a way. It’s a validation.

Stiles runs his free hand over his hair. Watching Stiles’ agitated energy reassures Scott. If he’s moving, jerking, and talking, Scott can know that, in some measure, Stiles is okay.

“So to recap… The Hales are werewolves. The Argents, which includes our classmate and our principal, are werewolf hunters. Scott’s an empath. I was a horcrux-like pawn in Peter Hale’s scheme to rise from the dead? Damn. I’d play this RPG, but I’m not sure about living it.”

“You believe?” Scott asks. Scott did. But Stiles had shown nothing but sardonic disbelief this whole conversation.

“Scott… if you say this empathy thing has been happening to you, I believe you. And I can’t deny what I’ve experienced. The wolf attack. The _sleepwalking._ ” He adds air quotes around ‘sleepwalking.’ “If this also involves werewolves.” He laughs, a little hysterical. “Who am I to judge?”

Scott flips his hand around under Stiles’ and squeezes his fingers.

“I have one more question,” Stiles says to Deaton. “Can I get my hands on your sources?”

…

Stiles comes to work with Scott now. As Scott goes around doing his chores, Stiles reads all the tomes of information Deaton has (which he keeps, unassuming, in the unlocked bottom drawer of a file cabinet.) Stiles finds Scott around the Animal Clinic – sitting near where Scott is working if he can – to fill him in on interesting tidbits like: “I knew mistletoe was poisonous to humans, but apparently it’s poisonous to _everythin_ g” and “Silver actually can’t kill werewolves.”

“But mistletoe can?” Scott retorts, eyebrows raised.

Stiles hefts up the big tome he’s carrying. “In the right quantities, maybe,” he says then eyes instantly narrow. “Don’t be a smartass, Scott. I’m a big enough smartass for the both of us.”

At some point later, Stiles puts down the book and rubs at his eyes. He then peers up at Scott, who’s been shuffling around in the area around Stiles (his shift’s been over for a half hour but he didn’t want to interrupt Stiles when he was concentrating so hard).

“What’s it like?” Stiles says, “The whole… empathy thing.”

Scott takes the stool next to Stiles and tries to piece together the right answer. No one has asked this yet.

“Unsettling,” Scott says, pushing one shoulder up. “I mean… I always understood other people’s emotions, but like in the normal way. Someone’s angry, someone’s sad, someone’s happy. You understand and it can be infectious or it can be scary or awkward. It’s just like that but turned up to max volume.”

“Huh,” Stiles says as he soaks it in.

Scott wrinkles up his nose and adds, “Mostly people are horny. Especially at school. Like 90% of the time.”

“And here I thought you were being profound.”

“You’re horny right now,” Scott counters.

“That’s not fair!” Stiles says, aggressively waving a finger as if this makes his point. “I’m always horny. And I’m not exactly discreet about it.”

Scott opens his mouth to say something like “I can fix that” but Scott doesn’t get to say it, because the bell on the front door chimes as it’s opened and they both look up.

Derek Hale has come to animal clinic. It’s been about a week since they met him, and that night, and Stiles has been bouncing back fairly well. Scott, too, if he takes an honest look at himself.

“Is Deaton here?” Derek asks with no preamble, kind of glaring at them.

“Yeah, he’s –” Scott points over his shoulder towards the back.

“Get him,” Derek states. Scott slides off his stool behind the counter while Stiles says to Derek, “Has anyone told you you’re incredibly charming?” while very obviously and incredibly not charmed.

Deaton comes out before Scott can get more than two steps away from the front desk. “Ah. I was wondering if you would show up,” he says. He goes to the gate in the desk and opens it like a courtesy for Derek to pass. The two go back to his office.

Scott and Stiles share a single significant glance, then they both scramble to go listen at the cracks around the closed office door. They hear a jumble of things that don’t make sense, something about a kanima amongst other things.

“This would be so much easier if we had werewolf hearing,” Stiles whispers.

“What?” Scott says.

“Werewolves have really good hearing,” Stiles explains, just as the door is yanked open and the two tumble inward onto the floor.

“Yeah, we do,” Derek says, glaring down at them. Deaton, however, looks amused, then thoughtful.

“Maybe they can help us.”

Derek’s head whips back to Deaton as Scott and Stiles pick themselves up. “What?”

“Yeah, what?” Stiles reiterates, harsh on the ‘t’.

Deaton looks between the three of them, settling lastly on Derek. “Have you ever heard of the concept of an emissary?”

…

Scott leans across the aisle and slips a folded note onto the corner of Allison’s desk. She plucks it up with fast fingertips and turns to peer at him, eyebrows slanted inward and downward in a silent question.

“Read it,” Scott mouths to her.

She unfolds it as Coach Finstock comes in to start class. Her shock is like a bowstring pulled suddenly taut. She sits stiff-shouldered for the rest of the class period.

Between chemistry and lunch, Allison finds him in a quickly emptying hall. She grabs the front of his t-shirt and leverages his surprise to bang him back into the lockers.

“Holy crap!” Scott declares, for he hadn’t envisioned this reaction.

Allison holds up his note with her free hand. “What do you know about all of this?”

Scott blinks a few times before he finds his words. “Honestly… I’m new to all this. But I want to help.”

“Help?” Her voice is a practiced intimidating, but Scott detects the vulnerable hiccups of her silent consciousness underneath.

“I’m not a werewolf,” he states plainly. “I’m not a hunter either.  But I know that there is a lot of bad blood between the pack and the hunters in this town. I have a vested interested in resolving that without unnecessary bloodshed. There’s already been too many casualties.”

“I still don’t understand how you’re helping.” Allison still has him pressed up against the lockers.

Enter Stiles hallway left, unplanned yet perfect. “Peace talks,” he says. “Sharing of information. Having a town with both werewolves and werewolf hunters… gets kind of awkward. Then there’s this kanima. And that’s kind of the big problem.”

Stiles says this all like he’s a well of wisdom and not like he learned what a kanima was yesterday and the rest of it in the last week.

Allison lets go of Scott finally and steps back. Scott slides into her hand a business car for the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic. She stares at it and then at the two of them oddly, but Scott is fairly sure she gets the message.

“I’ll call to make an appointment,” she says, somewhat haughtily, before marching off.

Scott massages his shoulder. Stiles steps in close. “So?” he asks.

“She doesn’t trust us,” Scott says. “But she’s hopeful.”

…

Scott later finds out that Allison called the clinic two hours after he passed her the business card. The arrangement is to meet tomorrow, a Saturday. Scott and Stiles show up in tandem, even beating Dr. Deaton there, their anxiety is so drumming.

Derek arrives next, and lurks around – silent and scowl-y.

Nearer the appointed time does Allison appear. Waiting in the front, Scott sees her through the glass door, striding across the street and not alone.

“Is that Lydia with her?” Stiles asks from behind Scott.

“Will you be able to control yourself?” Scott asks.

Stiles hooks his chin over Scott’s shoulder. “I’ll manage,” he says, and then right before the door is opened by the girls, adds, “But can I say, fantasy threesome. Think about it.”

“Oh my god.”

The mood shifts as they enter. It’s very real now, when all the pieces are at play.

Allison walks straight up to the counter with Lydia just half a step behind.

“Derek Hale’s here?” she asks.

“Yes,” Stiles babbles. “You know Derek? Do you know Peter? Because he _sucks_.”

“Peter killed my aunt,” Allison says, grim-eyed. Scott grimaces. Not a good place to start.

“He possessed me in order to bring himself back from the dead,” Stiles says with a nod, “And he turned Scott here into an empath.”

“Fascinating,” Lydia comments as she eyes them and how close they’re standing. “Let’s get this started. I have a manicure scheduled at noon.”

Scott flips the sign on the front door to ‘Closed’ and then leads the two ladies into the back.

“Well, I’m here,” Allison says as she settles into a wide-footed stance.

“You didn’t come alone.” Derek inclines his head toward Lydia who just lifts her chin in response. Derek’s not pleased but he hasn’t exactly been pleased since he arrived. Scott can feel him second-guessing this, even though the plan has yet to be given a proper shot.

“The message said not to tell my family, not to come alone,” Allison counters. She’s showing more bravery than she feels – Scott can tell this – but maybe that’s what bravery is: _doing anyway_ in the face of fear.

“Allison would tell me anything that would happen here anyway,” Lydia says, looking unimpressed with Derek and all these proceedings together.

“Making hunters out of your classmates?” Derek says.

“Is that better or worse than making werewolves out of them?” Allison says swiftly back.

“Okay guys, we didn’t come here to fight,” Stiles says with a grimace.

“I came here for information on the kanima, but I don’t really need to waste my time with this…” Allison says.

“This was my idea,” Deaton announces from where he had been standing – unobtrusive – back from the confrontation.

“And what exactly does a veterinarian have to do with…” Lydia looks around the ensemble critically, “ _This_?”

“I have more experience with werewolves and hunters than anyone in this room,” Deaton replies, silencing all of their objections, not just vocally, but internally as well. “While being in neither category… I’ve witnessed a lot. Blood feuds, betrayal, death… People who pursue power rather than peace. Some things years ago…” Deaton looks at Derek who looks down at his folder arms. Then Deaton looks to Allison and Lydia, “And some recent…

“What I’ve learned most is that too often do we pass down our mistakes and burdens onto our children. You’re all already shouldering this weight.” He finally looks to Scott (Scott reaches out to find Stiles’ hand on instinct, to remind himself he’s there). “I gathered you all here because I hoped... I hoped you, the next generation, the future of this battle, could rise above revenge, above prejudices, above… above what my generation was able to do.”

The room is quiet as what Deaton spoke absorbs within them. He spoke in generalities, but the hit certain people, their allusions to truths of their lives, very hard. And the room doesn’t seem so silent as they all stew.

“So,” Allison speaks up this time again, voice softer and less aggressive. “Let’s talk about the kanima.”

…

It doesn’t exactly go easily from then on, but Allison and Derek start talking rather than glaring and sniping. There’s contention about how to handle the kanima. Derek, at first, says he wants to kill it. This results in a visceral reaction from both Allison and Lydia. (“If I wanted to kill him I would have stayed and planned with my dad!”). It is revealed that the girls know the identity of the kanima. It’s Jackson. _Jackson_ Jackson. This perturbs Derek for Jackson, apparently, had been his first suspect but had been ruled out. This reveals that the cause of Jackson’s kanima-ness was a werewolf bite gone wrong. The why of it going wrong was yet to be determined.

“Wait,” Scott interrupts. He had been quiet through most of it, not an expert in the least on the topic of conversation. “I was bitten by a werewolf and didn’t turn into one. I became an empath instead. Dr. Deaton said…” He glances around and Deaton isn’t in the room. “Well, he said sometimes the bite will awaken something latent inside you.”

“Anything in your Latin about that?” Stiles asks Lydia.

She smoothes out the printed page. “I’ll double check.” Stiles heaves some of Deaton’s resources onto the table and the group starts a study session, pretty much.

Scott slips out a little later and finds Deaton in the kennel.

“The animals still need care even if we are _closed_ ,” Deaton says when Scott enters the room.

“They’re working together in there,” Scott says, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“I meant what I said,” Deaton says. “It wasn’t just some mind game. I just keep seeing disaster and death, and someone needs to change it.”

“I’m just not sure what my part in it is…” Scott wraps his arms across his stomach.

Deaton lowers the clipboard he had been using to take notes on his patients. “You heard me talk about emissaries.”

Scott nods once. “So, for Stiles and me… you think we’d be good at that?”

“Stiles sure has the brains for it,” Deaton says. “And you have the heart.”

Scott ducks his head. “But we’re just a bunch of teenagers. And Derek.”

Deaton smiles. “Maybe that’s what will make you successful. You won’t be burdened with the cynicism of age.”

They both hear raised voices from the next room.

“Better get back in there,” Deaton says. “Sounds like they need you,”

…

Stiles is counting off supernatural factoids on his fingers. His mouth is going a mile a minute right next to Scott’s ear because they’re crammed on Stiles’s bed together. They could be sprawled out, but they’ve chosen otherwise.

When all five of Stiles’ fingers are spread, Scott reaches his hand up and aligns it, palm-against-palm, to his boyfriend’s. Stiles sentence ends hanging and half-finished. Stiles shifts his hand a little, fingers pressing into the spaces between Scott’s and curling down.

“The world just got a whole lot bigger,” Scott says as he twists his head on the pillow and appreciates the contrast of his tan hand intertangled with Stiles’ pale one.

“I think that was inevitable,” Stiles says, “But yeah… this all has been unexpected.”

Scott snorts at the immense understatement.

“But we’ll get through it,” Stiles says, a statement of fact. “And the rest. Together. Right?” He looks at Scott from the corner of his eyes. He’s so close it’s hard for Scott to focus on Stiles’ features, but also so close that his lashes seem so long as he blinks.

They lay, fingers intertwined, Scott’s leg kicked over one of Stiles’ own, torsos pressed together, not quite distinguishable as two separate beings. Scott’s empathy might have given him a hard kick into realization, but Scott is unequivocally sure that he never needed it – the empathy— to know that Stiles is the one person with whom he’s going to make it through. Thick and thin. Growing up and werewolves.

So Scott closes his eyes and feels Stiles’ presence just through the moment of his steady breathes.

“Right.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> imriebelow was my wonder beta and also the person I bounced ideas off of and also inspired me to join in this reversebang in the first place so, basically, this fic would not exist, and not to this quality, without her. check her here on AO3. Check her out on tumblr. Be nice to her. That is all.


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